Demons
by Ice Queen1
Summary: Wes's parents are in town, and they very desperately need something from Wes. They're not willing to take no for an answer, and even Travis and the LAPD may not be enough to stop them. Bromance. Shameless whump.
1. Chapter 1

So. The beginning of the sequel to "Secrets". It helps to read that one first, but you'll get the idea of the story one way or another. There is SWEARING. I am a sailor, and that's how we express ourselves. So if that offends you, either close your eyes, or skim it. Mentions of child abuse, and there will be whump and shameless Wes and Travis (see, I didn't forget him) whump and bromance later. Maybe a little BAMF Travis. We'll see how it goes. Bromance, not slash! Read and review, and let me know what you think! I feel like I set myself up for failure after Secrets…;-)

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_When your dreams all fail_  
_And the ones we hail_  
_Are the worst of all_  
_And the blood's run stale_

_I want to hide the truth_  
_I want to shelter you_  
_But with the beast inside_  
_There's nowhere we can hide_

_Demons - Imagine Dragons_

Travis found himself in a bit of a conundrum. He hated prying. Honestly, he did. He liked being nosy, and he liked getting people to talk, but that was something totally different. If someone honest to God didn't want to talk to him, he'd be a little put out of a minute, and then forget it. He didn't want to be that jerk.

Wes, on the other hand, was the most tight-lipped person he'd ever met in his life. He never, ever spoke of anything outside of work, except in something they'd both done together. Like therapy, where they went for lunch, etc. Nothing involving Alex, where he went when they weren't working together, zip. Zilch. Nada.

But after Wes caught that nasty flu bug and wound up at Travis's apartment with a Dante's Inferno of a fever, hellish delusions included, Travis really, really wanted to get Wes to open up (thus the problem of not wanting to pry, but really needing to). He claimed he went to therapy when he was younger, and he sorted himself out and therefore no longer attended. The more Travis pushed, the more belligerent Wes became. And the last thing Travis wanted to do was set them back in their tentative new friendship.

But Travis still had nightmares about his partner screaming in terror from monsters in his head. And if _Travis_ had nightmares about it, he could just imagine what it was like for Wes.

Things were changing though. Just in teeny, tiny baby steps. Stumbling ones.

For instance, Travis actually managed to convince Wes to go to a bar after work for a beer. Just a beer, because he knew Wes would never agree to getting wasted, and they actually managed to sit and enjoy part of the ball game. Who knew Wes followed baseball? Travis brought him to a family BBQ in the old neighborhood, where his foster mom, Maria Gonzales, berated him for letting his partner get so skinny. She fawned over a bewildered Wes for the rest of the night, randomly hugging him and making sure he was a part of every conversation, treating him as if he was part of the family for years, not minutes. At the end of the night, when she hugged them both goodnight, she whispered something in Wes's ear, and the man turned bright scarlet and quickly excused himself back to the car. When she hugged Travis, she said she was so sorry she couldn't have had Wes as one of her 'boys', and made sure he knew what love was, but he was on strict orders to bring him back at least once a month so she could fix that.

Neither Wes or Maria ever said what she'd whispered in his ear to make him react like that.

If Wes happened to say anything about his past, Travis would pause for a moment, make sure he made eye contact with Wes so he'd know he was listening (thank you, Dr. Ryan), and see if Wes would say anything else. Most of the time, he didn't say anything further.

Sometimes he did.

For instance, Travis now knew that his mother and father were Charles and Camille Mitchell, CEOs of some company that dominated Forbes magazine on a yearly basis. They hadn't spoken in years, and Wes hadn't completed that step of therapy where he was supposed to offer an olive branch. Travis was fine with that. He had no siblings, and he didn't even speak to his extended family members. He'd been hospitalized no less than nine times because of his parents. He was at permanent risk of his body breaking down because of repeated bouts of starvation when he was younger, and that was why he was so careful with it now.

It wasn't the stories that turned Travis's stomach. He was a foster child in LA, and he was a cop in the same neighborhoods. Bad things happened. But it was the _way_ Wes said them. So blasé, as indifferent as if he was reciting his weight in grams again. It was just something that happened. Not good, not bad…just…there.

Maybe that was the therapy talking. Travis really hoped they didn't turn out like that once counseling was over…

Because of Wes's random tidbits of information, and his blow out in therapy now over two months ago, Travis had this idea of Wes's parents looking like comic book bad guys – tall, imposing figures who only came out at night and had fangs and masks.

So when Travis caught someone talking to Wes at his desk one day, he at first didn't think anything of it.

He was coming back from getting a case file back from the morgue when he saw them.

Wes was sitting down, back to Travis, hunched over his desk, a man in a suit that looked even more expensive than Wes's normal ones was standing behind him, leaning over his shoulder.

Travis slowed his pace, stopping and standing for a moment, trying to figure out what the hell was wrong with the picture.

The two of them were talking, that much was obvious, but Travis couldn't hear them from where he was standing. The postures were wrong for a friendly conversation – the other man had his hand up on the back of Wes's neck, which meant familiarity, but from the way that Wes held his head it looked like he was trying to push back, without making it obvious, and that the grip hurt. When Travis craned his neck to see if he could catch Wes's eye, he saw that the man had his hand on Wes's – and not in a friendly manner. It looked like he was trying to force a pen in Wes's hand, and Wes was keeping his hand clenched in a fist.

Hell with it. He didn't care what the hell was going on, and if it turned out it was nothing, he'd laugh about it later.

He walked past the coffee stand and snagged a piping hot cup as he passed, almost spilling some on his hand as he grabbed it.

"Hey, Wes!" Travis said, overly cheerful, hopping up next to the other man. "Whatcha up to?"

The other man stood up, quickly, but not fast enough for anyone to jump to the conclusion he was doing something wrong instead of just caught off guard.

"Young man," the man said, straightening his suit jacket. "Don't you have any manners?"

"I could ask you the same thing, Mister…?" Travis said, holding his hand out.

The man eyed his hand suspiciously, before extending his own. "Mitchell. Charles Mitchell."

Travis pulled his hand back before he made contact with the man's hand fighting the urge to punch the guy in the face. So _this_ was Wes's dad. He was a lot bigger than he thought anyone Wes shared genetics with could be. The man had to be six-foot five or taller, broad shoulder and all angles. Pale, like no Californian would ever be, and hollowed cheeks. Steel gray eyes, just turning silver dark hair. Had it not been for his shark like eyes, the man might have looked handsome. Instead, Travis had the distinct feeling like he might have just jumped into recently chummed waters.

Charles frowned, looking a mixture between puzzled and insulted.

"So," Travis said, looking down at Wes, who remained seated in his chair, and looking for all the world like he wanted to disappear. He refused to look up at Travis, and his partner could see him clenching his jaw hard enough he had to be hurting his teeth. "You're Wes's dad?"

"_Wesley's _father, yes. Have we met?" Charles said, his eyes narrowing, before his upper lip pulled into a sneer. "No, I don't imagine we have. I can't imagine ever shaking hands with a…man…such as yourself."

Travis smiled brilliantly. "Nor I you. Whatcha doing here? Come to say hello to your son?" He cautiously put a hand on Wes's arm, and to anyone else, it would look like he was razzing Wes about something new, but he could feel Wes flinch at the contact, and he felt rage bubbling up.

"That's between my son and I, and I don't believe we've been properly introduced," Charles said. His voice was low, deep baritone and slightly roughed, like gravel.

"We haven't?" Travis said, playing irritating to a 't'. "My mistake. I'm Travis Marks, Wes's partner. He's told me all about you." He paused for a moment, waiting to see how the man interpreted it, and he saw the black eyes narrow.

"He has, has he?" Charles asked mildly.

"Travis, don't…" Wes said quietly, risking a look up at his partner.

"Yeah, he has. And look, Mister. I don't really give a flying fuck all why you're here, or why you're talking to my friend. But you are in violation of a restraining order against an officer of the law, in a room filled with cops. No amount of lawyering is going to get you off the hook if we decide to press charges. And you know how things go with cops, right?" Travis smiled, keeping his tone light through his entire monologue. "We're like family, with kinda itchy trigger fingers and a bad habit of crossing the line. Not that you'd know what that means, but I'm sure a dictionary could help you out. Leave. Now. And I won't say shit. And don't you _ever_ come back, understand me?" Travis stepped closer to Charles, ignoring the difference in their heights and meeting his predatory gaze unflinchingly.

"Listen here, you filthy little –" Charles began, raising his hand to Travis. Travis had no intention of finding out if he was about to get jabbed, slapped or punched, and suddenly feinted forwards, the scalding hot cup of coffee hitting Charles square in the chest, making the larger man jump back with a surprised yelp.

"Oh, I'm sorry, did I burn you? Let me help you out with that," Travis said, and grabbed Charles upper arm, intent on leading him out, but Charles wrenched his arm out of Travis's grasp.

"Don't touch me," the man growled, advancing towards Travis, who refused to back down. Instead, he carefully maneuvered so he was directly behind Wes, blocking his partner from his father. "I came to talk to my son, and I will, one way or another."

Travis rolled his eyes. "The talking you were doing is actually called assault. And the sentence for assaulting an officer is five to seven, no chance of parole. California state law. I wonder who they're gonna side with? An asshole, or the two most decorated detectives on the LAPD? I wouldn't take those odds if I were you, man. Just walk away."

Charles's eyes flashed angrily, and Travis almost stepped back at the rage he could feel just rolling off the man. But this was Wes they were talking about.

"Wesley," Charles said, not taking his eyes off of Travis. "We'll finish our conversation later. And you will sign. One way, or another. And Wesley knows I've never gone back on my word…"

"Stop with the melodramatic villain monologuing. Go away. Far away. Whatever hole you crawled out of, go back to. Or I will raise holy hell to get your ass thrown in jail. Understand me?" Travis answered.

With one final sneer, and Travis was honestly surprised the man didn't growl at him, Charles straightened his jacket, and left the squad room.

No one paused, or seemed to notice the proverbial OK Corral gunfight go down, and Travis smiled to himself.

"Hey, Wes, did you see that? Not one thrown punch, no one noticed, and Wes, what's wrong?" Travis said, suddenly frowning when he saw Wes hunched over on himself, breathing rapidly through his nose, like he was trying to calm himself down. "Wes, man, take it easy! He's gone! You don't have to worry!" Travis tried to reassure him, kneeling down in front of the blonde.

Wes shook his head, his eyes squeezed shut, subtly rocking back and forth.

"No?" Travis said, completely lost. "Wes, did he do something? I'll kill him…"

Wes kept shaking his head. "You didn't fix anything, Travis…" he opened his eyes, and Travis could see the panic welling up. "_You made it so much worse_."

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So. First chapter. CookiesN'Cream124 gets credit for naming Wes's father. Yes, his mother will be showing up. No, nothing good will come of it. Thoughts on what you think it was that they wanted Wes to sign? Or why Charles was visiting Wes? Read and review, as always! They make me write faster (Especially the long ones. Love the long ones).


	2. Chapter 2

Author's Note: SUSPEND MEDICAL KNOWLEDGE. I am not a doctor. I in fact paid very little attention to first aid, biology, and anatomy and physiology class. I am working off I think an episode of Law and Order, or some random stuff I read in a fanfic years ago (If whoever it is reads this, I apologize for the lack of notice for borrowing your idea, but I liked it so much I couldn't help myself.)

Also – I'm slightly concerned that I'm turning Wes into kind of a wuss. He's very aloof on the show, and that's how I am in anger management (four time flunkie – let's see if I can set a record), so it's hard to guess how he would be under extreme duress. Maybe Friday's episode will be helpful. Let me know what you think! Also, no slash. You can interpret how you want, but I intend this as BROMANCE ONLY.

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To say Travis was confused was the understatement of the year. How could he have made it worse? He got rid of Wes's dad without causing a huge scene in the middle of the precinct! How could that possibly be bad?

But no matter what Travis thought, Wes obviously thought differently. And he was reacting very, very badly to it. He was beginning to hyperventilate, and Travis knew enough that if he didn't get him to calm down, he was going to go into a full panic attack. People were starting to notice. While Travis didn't care, he knew Wes would, and if he'd already made something bad worse, he wasn't about to do it again.

"Bad lunch," Travis explained to the detective nearby who was now staring curiously at the two of them. Wes hardly protested as Travis pulled him to his feet and shoved him towards the men's room just across the hallway, stumbling slightly as if he were about to be sick. Which maybe he was...

As soon as they pushed past the door, Travis let go of Wes's arm, quickly glancing under all the stalls. Finding them empty, he promptly slammed the door shut and locked it with the deadbolt.

Wes stood, hunched over, both hands on his knees as he tried to breathe in great huge gulps of air. It wasn't working though, and Travis could hear the beginning of a wheeze starting up as Wes's throat closed up, which was just going to make the panic attack worse.

"Wes! Man, you gotta breathe, or you're gonna pass out and I'm going to have to call someone. Just breathe! You can do it. Plenty of air, see?" Travis said, putting a comforting hand on Wes's back. He was secretly pleased that they'd come far enough that Wes didn't automatically flinch or pull away at the slight contact, and he mentally chalked one up against the Mitchells Senior.

Wes suddenly stood upright, his hand to his mouth and Travis backed up, thinking his partner was about to throw up. Instead, he did the last thing Travis was expecting – he knocked the side of the porcelain sink with the underside of his elbow, right where the nerve was, yelping in pain as he did so and immediately clutching at the joint, stomping one foot as he bit his lip.

Even Travis had to close his eyes, wincing in sympathy. "Ow, dude…what the hell did you do that for?"

Wes still had his eyes screwed shut, but his breathing was beginning to sound better – no more wheezing. Still fast though, and Travis wasn't sure exactly what the hell he was doing. "Pain makes you forget about panicking," he said. "And your funny bone is non lethal."

Travis tried not to think about why Wes would know how to distract himself from pain like that.

"What the hell is going on, man? What was your dad doing here? I thought you never spoke to each other after you were emancipated."

Wes paled even further, and ran a shaky hand through his short hair, making it even spikier than normal. "We haven't. We don't. I don't even know how he knew to look for me here. Well, I kind of do…we have been in the news lately, like with the federal judge's son..." He started pacing, flexing his nerve shot hand as he did so, and looking everywhere except at Travis.

Travis waited a moment, then asked very quietly, "What did he want, Wes?"

Wes froze. "He wanted me to sign…" he coughed, pulling at his collar which was already opened past the first button and nowhere near his throat. He cleared his throat, and tried again. "He wanted me to sign…a consent…"

Travis knew what was coming before Wes did, watching his partner's face go from pale to white as a ghost, literally like a thermometer mercury plunging with the temperature. Hell, he would be shocked if Wes wasn't suddenly seeing spots, fast as the blood just drained from his head.

Wes dove for the sink to his left, hands gripping the edge in a white knuckled death grip as he threw up everything he'd eaten in the last twenty-four hours with such violent intensity his arms shook from the sheer force of it.

"Whoa, there, buddy…" Travis said, flipping the cold water on so the mess was already being washed away, even as Wes began to dry heave. "You don't have to answer if it's that bad. But maybe you should talk to someone about it." Without really thinking about it, he started rubbing slow circles across Wes's back, just like his foster brother used to do for him when he caught the flu.

Wes shook his head, rinsing the bile out if his mouth with shaky hands. "No, I am not talking to someone else about it. And I should be able to say it. It's just words. Words have no power," Wes said firmly, and Travis had a sneaky suspicion he was reciting words from his other therapy class more than anything else.

"You sure about that?" Travis said, smiling briefly. "Because whatever words he said seem to have you pretty messed up."

Wes nodded standing up straight again, wiping the back of his hand across his mouth. "He doesn't control me anymore," Wes said firmly. "He came here because he needs me. Me specifically."

Travis raised an eyebrow. "Okay…what for?"

Wes's eye twitched, and he grimaced involuntarily. "He needs my permission…to…_DAMMIT_!" Wes swore, hitting his hand against the sink. "He's dying from liver disease, and he needs me to sign a fucking consent form so they can take part of mine."

Travis blinked. Whatever he was expecting, that was so far from it, it didn't even make the list. He was expecting something about Wes's inheritance at the very least. "He _what?_"

Wes took a deep breath, exhaling slowly and drumming his fingers against the porcelain. "My father and I share a rare blood type – B negative. Not as rare as AB negative, but only two percent of the population has it. It's also safer in any procedure to get a donor from your immediate family. My mother has A positive, and I'm their only child. In order to do the procedure, they need me to sign an informed consent paper saying I'm aware of the dangers and I haven't been forced into doing it under duress."

"Your father is _blackmailing_ you into giving up your _organs_?" Travis repeated, and he felt queasy just thinking about it. That was the stuff of horror movies. Who _does_ that sort of stuff? _Monsters_, Travis's brain was quick to supply, and it was hard to argue with that logic.

Wes nodded, and Travis thought he saw a suspicious shine to his partner's eyes, and his voiced wavered slightly when he spoke. "It's a difficult procedure under the best of circumstances – it's supposed to be from an adult to a child, and they only take twenty percent of the healthy liver to transplant, but even for the donor, there's a huge risk of renal failure, and at _least_ ten months recovery time."

"Tell him to go fuck himself," Travis said immediately. "You don't owe him jack shit – not a penny, a moment of your time, and definitely not your _fucking life_. Tell me you're not considering it. You can't be. You're not that stupid, you're not that crazy."

Wes shook his head, and opened his mouth to speak, but suddenly doubled over the sink again, once more dry heaving. All that came up was some sickly green crap that looked like his stomach lining. Wes didn't even bother to rinse his mouth out – just sunk to the floor with a barely suppressed sob, back to the sink, his hand pressed so harshly against his own mouth, air wasn't even getting past. He drew his legs up to his chest, and he was breathing like he'd run a marathon. Or was trying to stave off a complete and total breakdown. Leave it to Wes to suffer a waking nightmare in silence…or damn close to it.

"Whoa, no, don't do that, Wes man. You're going to be fine. You don't have to sign anything. You're a lawyer _and_ a cop. He can't _make _you do anything you don't want to. It has to be voluntary, right? And you'd never volunteer. And if they said you did, I'll back you. So will everyone else. You don't have to worry about it, all right?" Travis said, sinking down with him, directly in front of him with one hand on his knee.

Wes miserably shook his head, hand still against his mouth, but moved enough he could talk again. "Travis…it doesn't matter what _I_ want. It never does. I can say no all I want but…my father _always_ gets what he wants." He drew in a shuddering breath, and suddenly buried his head in hands, but not before Travis saw a tear escape the corner of his eye. Probably the first of many. "And for the first time in my life…God, Travis…" he choked out. "_He wants **me**_."

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Sooo…anyone see that coming? CookiesN'Cream, no comments, cause that'd be cheating. :-) Anyway. Too fast? Just right? Too slow? Let me know. Just so you know, this is the fastest I have ever posted _anything_ for _any_ fandom. Seriously. Look at the updates on my other fics. _Common Law_ moves me like no other, and I am soooo angry about this being the season finale on Friday. It's like _Suits_ last year, and they're gonna make us wait aaaaallll year for the new one. Pft. Leave me a review and let me know what you think! And for all of you who wrote me a long one….THANK YOU! You rock my socks.

Also – let me know how Wes sounds in this. I'm not sure if me being a girl throws off how I have him reacting, but I don't know about you – if a wealthy psychotic CEO suddenly decided he wanted my liver at all costs, I would freak the fuck out. Just saying.


	3. Chapter 3

Author's Note: So. A little longer than I was planning, and after several stumbling attempts, it just sort of took off. For those of you asking, yes, both Travis and Wes get to be badasses in this. However, Wes has to wait a minute. Also, his reaction in therapy is something I've seen people do. Case example, my partner – we had to go to therapy after he was shot, and when someone asked him if he'd told his wife, he reacted the same way as Wes does. Read and review as always! SERIOUS WARNINGS FOR THIS CHAPTER: Wes brings up a rather horrid memory of his childhood. The story is now going into T and possibly M territory. If child abuse strikes close to home, don't read this.

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_And I'll find strength in pain_  
_And I will change my ways_  
_I'll know my name as it's called again_

_Cause I have other things to fill my time_  
_You take what is yours and I'll take mine_  
_Now let me at the truth_  
_Which will refresh my broken mind_

- _The Cave_, Mumford and Sons

Wes didn't get the option of whether or not he wanted to spend the night in the guest room. Travis was bound and determined to keep an eye on his partner, especially when Wes came damned close to a panic attack twice more at the precinct. The only thing that really seemed to help was divert his attention, and fast. Travis wasn't a fan of the 'causing pain distracts from panic', but he figured out that irritating Wes worked just the same. The hyperventilating would only start if Wes started to think about his parents, so Travis simply didn't allow the possibility.

This idea had its perks.

But at the end of the day, Travis saw his partner balk at the idea of going back to his hotel by himself. He actually walked with Travis all the way out to the parking garage, playing with his keys the whole time. When he got to the Chrysler, he paused, taking a deep breath before turning around. Wes had barely opened his mouth when Travis clapped him on the back, grinning broadly.

"Do I have a deal for you," Travis said, smiling. "I finally managed to clean up the mess you made last time you came to visit. What say we put a couple more dents in the wall? I'm beginning to like the character it gives the place, you know? Makes me think of all the foster homes I grew up in. Besides, you're going to have to give me a ride anyway, my bike insurance ran out."

Wes rolled his eyes. "Of course it did. Because keeping track of simple things like when you insurance is no longer valid doesn't even make it to your radar."

"If it's not exciting, why bother?" Travis said, sliding into the passenger seat.

Fortunately, the night passed with little incident, and if Wes had nightmares, he kept them to himself. They both pretended like there was nothing out of the ordinairy, and they didn't mention it again. There was a lot they didn't talk about.

They didn't speak of Wes's family, or the demand his father placed on him, or even the vague threat that Travis wanted to report to the Captain. But technically, Mr. Mitchell hadn't committed any crime, except violate the restraining order, and if Wes wasn't the one to press charges, there wasn't anything Travis could do. It irritated the crap out of him, and he really, really wanted to talk to Wes about it…but his partner would just ignore him or tell him to drop the subject if it was mentioned.

After five years of being partners, Travis was used to it. And he wasn't really okay with it, but he also knew that the more someone pushed Wes to do something, the more resistance they encountered. But that didn't mean he was going to like it. Or that he had to obey that rule now. Besides, to be perfectly honest…organ stealing horribly abusive parents were a little beyond his realm of expertise.

Until they had to hide the bodies, anyway.

"Look, Wes," Travis began for what felt like the fifth time that afternoon alone. "I'm just saying maybe you should talk to Dr. Ryan about it. She already knows what's going on, she works wonders for us, and I don't even have to be there. You can sign up for like private sessions or something. But you really, really, _really_ need to talk to someone about it. Or you're gonna like…explode."

The two of them were sitting in the car, keeping tabs on a possible witness to a local liquor store robbery. Surveillance was the worst part of robbery/homicide division, and it always made Travis talk more than he should. He kind of wished that just once it would be Wes who started talking, but no…the CIA would be lucky to get info out of Wes if he didn't feel like sharing. Though waterboarding was beginning to sound like a possibility…

Wes rolled his eyes at Travis's predictably dramatic conclusion. "I am not going to explode. And I have been to a therapist. A few of them. I've seen enough of them. And yes, seeing Dr. Ryan for more than just our usual session counts as another one. I'm not talking about it with someone else."

"Can _I_ talk about it then?" Travis asked.

Wes raised an eyebrow. "What could you possibly need to bring this up for?"

"Because it's freaking me out, man!" Travis said, before biting his lip. "You know what, never mind. I'm just gonna shut up now." He grabbed the binoculars from Wes's unresisting grip.

Wes frowned, glancing out the window before back at his partner. Travis was hunched up, shoulders forward and his head pulled down low, almost like a turtle, into his jacket collar. One foot was up on the dash, and since he didn't have shoes on, Wes didn't really care – one of the concessions he'd made thanks to therapy. No shoes on the dash didn't mean no feet. But he seemed…tense. It was such a foreign concept to Wes to see Travis as anything other than goofy and carefree, even when interrogating a suspect or chasing down a gunman. He'd make a game of anything.

Admittedly, he was a little surprised at the wide berth Travis gave the subject of his father or his parents in general. He expected Travis to harp on him to spill his life story to him, because that's how Travis was. He cared, but he wasn't the type to be patient about getting details – which is why he wound up in so much trouble with due process.

"What could possibly be bothering you about this whole thing?" Wes asked. "You're not the one whose dad showed up after fifteen years to try and steal a liver."

Travis ignored him, humming to himself one of his ridiculous chase theme songs.

"Travis, you can't bring this up and then ignore it. What could possibly freak you out in this? It has nothing to do with you!" Wes demanded.

"Because it has to do with _you_!" Travis blurted out in frustration. "God, Wes, I know we're not the _best_ of friends, but Jesus, we're still partners! And this crap is right out of a goddamn horror movie! Ever since you told me what your dad wanted from you, I've been having all these bizarre nightmares about being strapped to a table and hacked open while the Joker laughs maniacally overhead, and if _I'm_ having nightmares about it, then I _know_ you have to be! You already look like a freakin' zombie from no sleep and honestly, you're beginning to worry me. I'm not saying talk to _me_ about it, I'm just saying talk to _someone_."

Wes fought the urge to stare open mouthed at his partner, who after his little explosion went right back to staring pointedly out the window, despite the fact that their suspect was nowhere to be seen.

"But _why_?" he asked. "I mean…" he trailed off, shaking his head. "You're not even a part of it…"

Travis slammed the binoculars down with an audible crack, but he didn't care. "_Christ_, Wes, did I not _just _say-" whatever words he was going to say were lost when he saw the look on his partner's face. "You seriously don't know why I care? Why it matters to me?"

Wes felt himself flush scarlet in embarrassment, and turned towards the window. "You don't have to say it like that. I'm not an idiot."

Travis chuckled without humor. "Jeez, they did a number on you. Haven't you ever had a friend who just…cared?" When Wes remained silent, Travis backtracked hastily. "That didn't come out how I meant it…I just meant…God, how do women do this without killing one another?"

Wes raised an eyebrow without saying anything.

"This-" Travis waved a hand between the two of them. "Share feelings and make progress and…all that crap."

"You're the one with the sisters. You tell me," Wes said, one corner of his lip twitching upwards.

"_You _had a wife!" Travis pointed out.

"And look how that turned out," Wes answered, crossing his arms.

Travis made a "pft" sound, waving his hand at him. "Whatever. You get the point."

Wes was quiet for a moment, and Travis thought he wasn't going to say anything else, but then he sighed. "Does it really…bother you?" he asked.

"What? Your dad?"

Wes nodded.

"Yeah, it does. What bothers me more is that you never said yes or no, which means somewhere in that brilliant mind of yours, you were contemplating saying yes. After all the shit he did to you, you still had a moment where you thought this might be a good idea. And _that's_ why I want you to talk to someone about it." Travis picked the binoculars up again. "By the way, if you do say yes, I'll kill you."

Wes sighed. "Fine. But if I have to talk to someone else about this, I'm making you come, too."

"What? How come I need more therapy?" Travis said, smiling.

Wes felt red start to creep up his neck again, and he desperately wished he'd stop doing that. "Because if I have to talk to someone…I only want to have to say things once."

Travis sobered for a moment. "Yeah. I'll go. Don't worry about it."

"One question though."

"Yeah?"

"Why is it the Joker standing over you?"

"Because in my dreams, I'm Batman. Duh."

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Wes was beginning to regret his decision, but it was too late now. Besides. As much as he was loathed to admit it, Travis might have a point. He wasn't sleeping well at night anymore, and even when he did, he was plagued with nightmares. It was beginning to affect his work to the point that he had Travis doing spellcheck for him, of all things, because he was too tired half the time to tell up from down, never mind 'their' from 'they're'.

He'd actually asked if he could bring it up in the couple's therapy group, which shocked Travis, given how tight lipped he was normally. However, he'd learned through his first bought of therapy that just one on one sessions didn't work for him. He didn't like being the center of attention, he didn't like making eye contact when he could avoid it, and just having someone else there to deflect to worked a lot better. Admittedly, his other group was formed of other abuse cases, but the principle was the same. He hoped.

Except when it came time to actually discuss it, he found himself balking at the idea of having to talk about it. Actually, close to panicking. He kept clenching his hands against the fabric of his pants, trying to breathe normally and was only moderately successful, but he refused to freak out like he did with Travis.

Mind over matter. Right? Right.

"Wes, I _want_ to help," Dr. Ryan said, patiently, soothingly. Somehow, that grated on Wes's already frayed nerves. "_We_ want to help." She gestured around to the other three couples. "I like to think in the past few months we've all come to care about one another. And I know that I specialize in couples therapy and group counseling, but I do have a doctorate in psychology. I want to help you move past this. Who knows? Perhaps it will improve your ability to make a connection with others."

The group nodded their assent, their vague platitudes mildly soothing. Wes looked helplessly over to Travis, who shrugged.

"Personally, I think it'll do you good to talk to someone. But it's your call on the who and when," Travis said. "But keeping it bottled up…that's not healthy."

Wes turned back to the group, studying their faces for any signs of deceit. There was nothing there except the honest desire to help – maybe just to make up for the pushing a few weeks ago that started this epic mess. Of course, this was still pushing, but it was at least to help instead of just making assumptions.

Wes sighed. "Before we start, I'm setting one ground rule, and if you can't agree to it, this isn't happening, agreed?"

Dr. Ryan nodded. "We'll try to abide by it. What are your terms?"

"I don't have to give any details. If I tell you I'm not answering, that's the end of it. But I will…try…to as open as I can."

Travis hit his foot with his shoe, smiling. "If anyone is too shy to ask for his number, ask me after class."

"I will strangle you, Travis, and leave the body where no one can find it," Wes snapped back. There. Everything back to normal.

Dr. Ryan smiled at the chuckling group. "So tell us, Wes. Have you ever spoken about your family to anyone in a counseling group?"

Wes flexed his hands, smoothing the material down where he'd bunched it under his fingers. "Yes. When I was eighteen, I saw a psychiatrist as part of my emancipation hearing."

"Do you feel you benefitted from it?"

Wes cleared his throat, before taking a deep breath. _Just think of it like a hearing_. "To a point, yes. He at least convinced me that the long arm of my parents didn't extend to everyone. Obviously, I didn't really get past the trust issues…" Wes smirked.

"What made you stop seeing him? You said he helped you to a point. What was that stopping point?"

"I stopped going when he insisted neither of us could move forward in counseling until I forgave my parents and tried to make amends." Wes's voice dropped about ten degrees, and anyone could tell that it was not something he was willing to negotiate with.

"You don't feel that you would benefit from it? Or you don't believe your parents deserve a chance to make amends?" Dr. Ryan asked.

Travis snorted. "They _deserve_ a punch to the throat."

"I don't think that they have a right to ask such a thing," Wes replied. "They never expressed any regret for what they did, so I don't have any for leaving them."

"Have you contacted them at all since you were emancipated?" Peter asked.

"No," Wes said.

"They might have changed..." Peter said carefully. "I had a friend who was emancipated from her parents when she was seventeen. She's not close with her parents now, but they can at least be civil towards each other."

"They haven't changed at all," said Wes.

"Have they contacted you?" Dr. Ryan asked curiously. "You seem awfully sure nothing has changed."

Wes shot a glance over to Travis, who nodded slightly in encouragement. Anyone else would've missed the subtle movement. "Yeah. My father showed up at the precinct the other day, asking for help."

"So he's open to reaching out to you?" Dr. Ryan asked. "That's always a good sign."

"No, he's open to making subtle threats about my non-compliance to help how he wants me to. And no, I will not change my mind. I'm not answering anything further on it," Wes stated, crossing his arms.

"Okay, that's fair," Dr. Ryan said, back pedaling. "You said your father contacted you. What about your mother?"

Wes felt his breathing hitch and his heart skip a beat. "My mom?"

"Yes, Wes. Your mum. Have you had any contact with her?"

"No…" Wes shifted in his chair, suddenly aware that this might be a really bad idea, no matter what Travis thought. Some nightmares were better left alone, no matter how bad they were.

"Do you think she would be more approachable than your father?"

"He already said he wasn't contacting his parents," Mr. Dumont said, and Travis made a mental note to buy that man a beer.

"But mothers always care about their children differently than fathers," Mrs. Dumont pressed, and Travis made a mental note to…do something not nice.

Dr. Ryan was fortunately keeping a better eye on Wes than she did the first time the subject was dredged up, and now she was noting with concern all the signals Wes was sending off. His breathing suddenly sped up, and he'd lost all color he'd had, making the shadows under his eyes from lack of sleep even more enunciated. This wasn't a subject to bring up with the group. It might not be something for him to bring up with her at all.

"Wes, we can talk about something else, if you like," she said gently. "You look like you've had enough for today."

The bewildered look she received confirmed her theory that Wes had wandered off in his own head for a moment as soon as the subject of his mother was brought up.

"But the only thing he's ever said about his parents had to do with his father. Maybe his mother was in the same boat as him and he just didn't see it," Mrs. Dumont said.

Travis was ignoring her, because he remembered his partner telling him that his mother had once struck him hard enough to knock an adult tooth out of his head when he was twelve. He didn't really care if she had been abused, it didn't give her the right to turn around and revisit it upon her son. "Wes, deep breaths, huh? I'll even go for shallow ones right now, but you gotta breathe…"

"Mrs. Dumont, I realize you're trying to help, but I think that's enough for today," Dr. Ryan said sternly.

The older woman looked slightly abashed, but just couldn't seem to accept that not all mothers deserved an award. "But…maybe they could find some common ground…bond…."

At that last word, Wes burst out laughing. Not a humorless chuckle, or a genuine laugh. It was a high-pitched burst of hysterical laughing, and he immediately put his hand to his mouth. But he didn't stop laughing. It was like he couldn't.

"Wes, calm down," Dr. Ryan tried, shooting daggers at Mrs. Dumont who finally found the sense to shut up. "You're fine, Wes. We don't have to discuss anything else, all right? We're done for the day."

Wes didn't stop – he just shook his head, his breathing hitching slightly as tears formed in the corners of his eyes.

"Wes? You're freaking people out," Travis said, and was tempted to hit Wes's knee right where the nerve was, just to interrupt the disturbing laughter. It had to be painful, laughing like that, and Wes's arm was holding on to his stomach where there was probably a stitch forming.

"What's so funny?" Rozelle whispered to Clyde, who shrugged.

It was actually Dakota who answered, and her husband looked a little shocked. "Hysterical laughter is a symptom of anxiety. Some people laugh at inappropriate things because it's just how they process their emotions. You shouldn't have kept pushing," she said, scowling at Mrs. Dumont.

"I still don't know what I said to make him laugh…" she said doubtfully.

"He's not laughing because it's funny," Travis said harshly, watching as his partner's face was turning red, and tears were running over his hand. "He told you not chase a subject he didn't want to talk about! Wes! Breathe!" Desperate to get him to stop, he muttered a quick 'sorry' before he grabbed the nerve under Wes's tricep and twisted.

"OW!"

Wes rubbed at his arm, still trying to smother a few stray snickers, but the hysterical laughter was gone, dying out as quickly as it had come on.

"Sorry, man. But I had to try something, and my aim isn't good enough to hit your funny bone," Travis said apologetically. "You okay?"

Wes swiped furiously at his eyes, erasing all evidence of what just happened. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm good…"

"I assume you don't want to talk about what just happened," Dr. Ryan said, breathing a mental sigh of relief, but noting she should probably discuss with Travis better ways to bring Wes down than causing pain.

Wes didn't immediately say anything, and Dr. Ryan thought he would keep quiet, but after a moment he spoke. The tone was disturbingly flat, lacking any emotion that was expressed a minute ago, however inappropriate.

"You could say my mother and I already had a bond. Don't be too embarrassed, Mrs. Dumont. Everyone else could see the marks my father left on me. My mother…left much deeper ones, that no one else could see." Wes's blue eyes suddenly found the floor incredibly interesting. "But it was her steps that I was terrified of stopping outside my door late at night, when she knew no one else could hear us."

Travis suddenly wanted to punch Mrs. Dumont for making Wes say what he thought he was about to. He didn't want to hear it. Wes already lived in a nightmare. He didn't deserve…

"Her and her _special little boy_…"

And Travis felt his heart break.

CLCLCLCL

Ok, so I fought with this for a while. This is a subject I'm familiar with, but not between a parent and child. My dog and I do a lot of therapy work with former kidnap victims, etc. They tell that dog a lot of horrible things. So this is roughly adapted to make it fit the storyline. What do you guys (and gals) think he means by that? I wonder if I'm being to vague…or too explicit. Let me know if it lives up to your expectations. Taking stories slow is also not something I'm very good at, but I think I might want to make this longer than originally planned…


	4. Chapter 4

Yes, long delay. Sorry. I've been out of town for a while, and when I'm on leave, I try not to go near the computer. But now I'm back. Hopefully this will be worth the wait. Moving along from Wes just freaking out to an actual storyline (I know, hard to believe, right?) Not slash!

_They say it's what you make_  
_I say it's up to fate_  
_It's woven in my soul_  
_I need to let you go_

_Your eyes, they shine so bright_  
_I want to save their light_  
_I can't escape this now_  
_Unless you show me how_

_Demons_, Imagine Dragons

CLCLCLCLCLCL

"This is the third one in a month," the uniformed officer said as Travis crouched next the body. "Maybe it's the weather, but normally these guys aren't so violent towards one another."

"Well, you're right about the towards each other part," Travis said, grimacing slightly as he used his pen to push the homeless man's jacket away from the fatal wound near his liver. "This looks awfully specific for just a scuffle over trash territory."

The uniform…Ryan, from his name tag, looked relieved. "I've been trying to tell people that these are looking way too similar for it to be just a fight every time. It's…the wound… always the same spot, and there's never any other signs of a struggle. Like they didn't see it coming, or they were asleep or something. I've been in this neighborhood forever and I've never seen a stealth ninja hobo attack."

Travis laughed at that one, even as the younger man's ears turned red. "Sorry, that was unprofessional," he said, looking away.

"You're fine," Travis said, letting the filthy jacket fall back in place. He glanced up at his partner who was staring at his phone, completely ignoring the entire scene. "Wes? You feel like chiming in at any point?"

Without looking up, Wes shrugged one shoulder. "For once I agree with the uniform. It's too precise for random stabbing each time, and it's almost surgical in precision."

"Serial killer?" Ryan said, torn between looking hopeful and scared that there might actually be one on the loose.

"Vigilante killer, more likely. Lots of people seem to have this idea that homeless people are better off dead than on the street."

"What's the difference?" Ryan asked.

Wes looked up from his phone, and when he answered his voice was tight and strained. "The difference is that a serial killer does it because he wants to. Vigilantes think it's their duty or their right."

"Sorry," Ryan apologized, noting the change in the detective and not entirely sure what he'd done to warrant it. "I'll go do crowd control." With that, he practically ran away from the scene.

Travis looked at Wes, who was back to his phone, finger poised above the keys as if preparing to either type or smash it. "Your parents again?"

Wes nodded without saying anything, just shoved the phone back into his pocket.

"They're _still_ trying to convince you to change your mind?" Travis said, finally standing to let the coroners move the body, now that forensics had gone through the scene.

Wes stayed quiet, which only confirmed Travis's suspicions. "Man, file another restraining order or something. Lodge a complaint with the department. Something!"

"Like what?" Wes snapped. "Do you have any idea how long it takes to file a lawsuit against someone like my father? Especially if it's just harassment charges? They'll never stick, and it'll just be a waste of time, while everyone at the department figures out what's going on."

"You gotta do something! Hell, at the rate you're going, we might as well just hit him with a car and put him out of your misery. You look like you haven't slept in weeks, and you're crankier than usual."

"My plan on waiting him to die from liver disease before he can steal mine seems to be working out just fine, thank you," Wes growled.

"I feel like we should be slightly more proactive about this. Speaking of proactive, I can't keep going to therapy by myself and taking notes for you. Dr. Ryan is eventually going to rat us out to the Captain, and then we'll be in violation of our probation," Travis said, pulling off his gloves as the two of them ducked under the crime scene tape.

"I'm not going back," Wes said flatly.

Anyone else would've dropped the subject, but Travis wasn't just anyone.

"She's apologized like a thousand times. She was coming from a good place, she just…din't understand. She talked about it later, but her and her mother have been extremely close their entire lives. Maybe it's a generational gap or something, but she honestly just couldn't understand that a mother could be…"

"Evil?" Wes supplied. "Sadistic? Manipulative?"

Travis pursed his lips. "And then some. But still…have you ever shared that…_stuff_…with anyone?"

Wes shook his head. "And I'm not about to do it again, thank you. I'm not going back to therapy, and I'm not finding a different counselor. Once my dad is out of the picture, I'll have no more concerns."

"Except almost two decades worth of nightmare inducing memories that make most Stephen King novels look like Disney versions," Travis quipped. "Hey, can I borrow your phone?"

"Where the hell is yours?" Wes asked, irritated, even as he dug for his in his pocket.

"Battery died and I can't find my charger," Travis explained, and swiped the unlock sequence without even asking Wes. The man was too predictable with his passwords, for being a hotshot lawyer and homicide detective.

Travis really hadn't lost his phone charger. His was working fine. But something on this phone was holding entirely too much of his partner's attention lately. He quickly scanned to the text messages, and found over fifty from unknown or at least, unlabeled, numbers. They seemed to be his family – a couple were fairly obvious. The further down he scrolled, the further his stomach dropped.

All of them were telling Wes to help out his father. What a selfish man Wes was being, denying his father a life saving treatment. How dare he turn his back on his family. How could he just walk away like family meant nothing. And they were not politely put. Some of these terms were considered arrestable, depending on who was saying them to who.

How could a family _do_ that to someone? Even if they didn't know about what Wes's parents were capable of, how could you say something like this to someone you were supposed to love? Travis wasn't even related by blood to 99% of his brothers and sisters, and he would _never_ say some of these things, no matter how angry he was. Next chance he got he was getting one of the IT guys to block Wes's number from any record outside of the police department.

The top menu of the phone flashed with a new message. It was from an unknown number, and Travis clicked it without thinking. He almost dropped the phone.

_My beautiful boy, I know why you don't want to see your father, but why can we not meet? I have missed you…no one can replace you. Not even Charles_ –

"What the hell are you doing?" Wes snapped, grabbing the phone out of Travis's unresisting fingers.

Travis didn't say anything – he couldn't. Oh, he just wanted to strangle the woman to death.

When Wes looked down at the message, his mask slipped a little and Travis could see the haunted look in his eyes before he angrily jabbed at the phone and put it back in his pocket.

"Wes! Come on, man!" Travis jogged after his partner who was speed walking back to his car. "I wouldn't pry if you would _just_ talk to me!"

"Talk about _what_ Travis? Will suddenly everything go away if I tell you about my entire family berating me into saving the family patriarch just so their trust funds don't disappear? How about if I tell you about how I keep getting texts from my mother I don't think even a hooker would write? Talking doesn't make it better, Travis, it just makes it real. And I don't want real, because I can't get away from it. If it's just nightmares, if it's just in my head, I can wake up. I can move on. But not if it's a conversation with someone else." Wes's shoulders sagged a little as he leaned against the roof of the Chrysler. "Especially not if it's you, and I have to see you every day with that look on your face."

Travis huffed. "Fine. I won't push. But if I think you're about to do something stupid, like go and meet one of them, say for instance, at a _hospital_, I'm going cuff you to the desk."

"I am _not_ about to help any of them. Which is why family has decided to campaign against me. I need to see about getting my number changed and off any and all lists known to man," Wes grumbled.

Small as it was, Travis was still glad they were on the same page about one thing.

CLCLCLCLCLCL

"This is definitely the work of the same person," Jonelle said, pointing at the stab wounds low on the homeless man's abdomen. "It's surgical type precision too – not the shaky hands of someone who hasn't done it before, probably someone with a medical degree. You can see that the liver is lacerated pretty badly though, so it was probably intended to make the victim suffer, rather than kill them quietly. Someone with the kind of skill to do something like this could've easily stabbed them in the heart, any one the major arteries…this was intentional, to cause pain."

"So we're looking for someone with a medical background…what're the odds that this level of skill is by someone still a student?" Travis asked.

Jonelle shrugged. "It's possible, but you'd be looking at a Doogie Howser. This is probably along the lines of a specialist in surgeries relating to transplants."

"That an especially short list?" Wes asked.

"In the state of California, I think there's probably…four? Five? That could do this level. In the country…less than thirty," Jonelle replied.

"Perfect," Wes said, smiling though it looked a bit wan. "Thanks for the help."

As they turned to leave the autopsy, Jonelle called back for Travis, who looked more than a little surprised that she wanted to talk to him at all.

"What's up?"

Jonelle carefully looked back at Wes's retreating figure before she whispered, "Is everything okay with Wes?"

"Yeah. Family in town. You know what family is like," Travis said, smiling. "I'm keeping an eye on him, I swear."

"Make sure he eats something. He looks awful. And get rid of his family. They don't look like they're doing him any favors."

"Working on it," Travis said, grumbling to himself. "I might need help hiding a few bodies though."

"I hear pig farms are good. There's one about twenty miles outside of town. Just saying," Jonelle said, smiling.

"I'll keep that in mind," Travis said, returning the grin before following after Wes towards the bullpen.

"What did Jonelle want?" Wes asked, not looking up from the computer. He was already sifting through personnel files for a possible suspect – transplant surgeon, probably disgraced or some other issue with society that's hopefully been documented by the press or a journal.

"Just to give me more shit without a witness," Travis said, flopping into his chair, scrubbing a hand over his face. "You know how it is."

"No, actually I do not. Because I don't date in the work place," Wes said smugly.

"You and Alex worked together," Travis pointed out.

"We were already engaged when I started work at the firm. Doesn't count."

"Does so! Dating in the work place! Engaged in the work place is the same thing, it just means you're hyper exclusive," Travis protested.

"You know, with thinking like that, it's a wonder that people insist that romance is dead," Wes said. Anything else he could've said was cut off when his phone rang. "We'll continue this in a second. Detective Mitchell," he answered the cell.

"_Get my messages? If you don't sign the paper, I will make sure their last moments are a picnic compared to yours, son_."

That voice was impossible to forget. Like fingernails on slate, and a sinister promise that hung in the air against anyone who would defy him.

Charles Mitchell.

Wes dropped the phone as if it burned him, the call already truncated even as it hit the floor and fractured the flimsy screen. He could feel the panic building up again, even as Travis picked up the phone.

His father was behind it. His father was a murderer.

And he was coming after _him. _

CLCLCLCLCL

Sooo…not sure how this worked out. I love feedback, constructive or otherwise. Let me know you're still reading, even though Common Law isn't on Friday anymore. Speaking of which…anyone know if it's been renewed? Please say yes?

Also – would anyone be interested in a Common Law fic that features my partners at work? It'd be a totally crackfic/humor story, but if no one wants to read it, I'll just write it for myself and leave it on my computer. Read and review!


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Okay. Been awhile. But without episodes to watch or look forward too, I can't seem to find the previous compulsion to write. However, I have discovered writing in a notebook at work on break works a little better than staring blankly at a computer screen hoping something happens. Read and review, as always, and nope. Still not slash.

* * *

"Wes, you have to report it," Travis said. "Your father just practically admitted to being the murderer behind the serial stabbings."

Wes sighed, rubbing his fingers against his temples. "No, my father made a vague threat on the phone, which only I heard and have no recording of, with no substantial proof or evidence to back such a claim. It would be thrown out in minutes at court with their lawyers."

"It would at least get them investigated," Travis pointed out.

"I don't _want _them investigated. I want them to go away and not ever have to think about them again."

"And what's your plan for that, hotshot?" Travis countered.

Wes smirked slightly. "My plan of ignoring them while my father dies a slow and painful and entirely preventable death from organ failure is working out nicely, thank you."

Travis paused, mid rant. "Hmm. I suppose that _is_ a pretty effective plan. But he seems to be taking his sweet time about dying. It's been like two months since he first showed up all hot and bothered to get you to donate a kidney."

"Liver. And only a piece."

"Whatever. If he was really that sick, you'd think he'd have keeled over already."

Wes sighed again, tilting his head back against the chair. "My father is nothing if not patient."

Travis leaned his elbows on elbows on the desk. "Okay, if that's how you want to look at it…what happens when he isn't anymore? Patient, I mean. What do normally patient, completely psychotic men do when they can't afford to wait?"

Wes didn't say anything, just stared resolutely at the ceiling and clenching his jaw tighter.

"They snap, dude. It's what crazy people do. And your father…your mother…they're obviously pros at the game. And if we don't do _something_, the one who loses is you."

"Travis, I appreciate the help. But it's really not helping at all, so I'm not sure I can even call it help. I'll…fix it on my own."

Travis could've hit his partner. "I'm trying to tell you, you don't _have_ to do it on your own. You've been doing this on your own since it started, and no offense, it doesn't look like you've gotten anywhere."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence, partner," Wes grumbled. "I'll…think about it, alright?"

"Think about accepting help? Or are we going back to my plan involving the pig farm? They eat everything, I'm telling you…"

Wes chuckled. "Not the pig farm."

Travis huffed. "Fine. Don't turn your phone off, and don't do something stupid."

"Like what?" Wes challenged. "I thought doing stupid, spur of the moment stuff was your deal, not mine."

"Like going to see them on your own to make a Faustian deal to get them to back off," Travis said, glaring pointedly at him.

Wes snorted. "Yeah, right. I'd rather die."

"You keep going the way you are, and it'll happen sooner, rather than later," Travis cautioned, going back to the case files.

Wes tried to ignore the thought, but it was about as easy as ignoring the carpet on fire.

The rest of the day went on as usual – they sifted through every piece of evidence they had on the serial stabbings of the homeless, but found no evidence connecting either the elder Mitchell or anyone else. They were simply going in circles, and in frustration born from feeling useless, they started sniping at one another as was usual.

Serial killing fathers be damned, old habits still die hard. Which is how it came to Wes and Travis leaving the station for their homes on their own, an hour apart. In retrospect, not the brightest move on Wes's part, but arguing with Travis actually managed to make him blank on the fact that he was his father's currently most wanted.

Forgot, that is, until a long black limousine pulled up in front of his car, blocking his way to his car.

He actually almost walked into it without seeing it, the engine was quiet enough and he was absorbed in a heated text argument with Alex about him coming over while his parents were in town to have dinner.

"Your father requests your presence, sir," a crisp voice spoke, breaking Wes out his stunned silence at the car. His father's personal assistant, David, held open the back door. "He sends the limo as a token of his sincerity."

Wes scoffed. "Of course he's sincere. I'm not getting in the limo, David. Now go away before I call the precinct." He stepped by David, who only maneuvered back in front of him.

"I'm afraid I must insist, sir. Your father was adamant. And he suspected you might be…recalcitrant, so he asked me to remind you that he can always send another message. This time, perhaps a more...youthful one?"

The PA was smooth and efficient, no emotion or regret in his voice as he calmly relayed Charles's threat to his son. He'd been with the family too long not to know what he was implying with those words.

"He wants to see me at the mansion?" Wes finally asked, putting the phone away, and not so subtly brushing his coat aside so David could see the gun he still carried.

"Yes, sir," David confirmed. He gestured towards the waiting limo.

"I'll drive myself, thank you. Knowing my father, his order probably included chloroform and me waking up in a bath tub filled with ice in a shady hotel."

"Your father-"

"If he wants to see me at all, I'll drive myself. Or I don't care how many 'messengers' he sends, the answer will still be no," Wes interrupted.

David huffed, but relented. "I presume you still know the address?"

"I'm not a moron, thank you. I can remember where I grew up."

"Very well, sir. Your father asks you not be late, or there will be…consequences."

"Yeah, yeah, cloak and dagger and murder and all that crap. I'll be right behind you."

As the limo pulled quietly away, Wes pulled his phone back out, about to text Travis what happened, but his finger hovered above the 'send' key. He hit delete instead.

Sometimes, you had to do things on your own. Facing your demons was a part of therapy, right? And his father wouldn't kill him outright…he might even confess or hint at something Wes could tie him to while monologue-ing.

Wes had to keep reminding himself of that as he followed the limo towards the mansion that haunted his nightmares still.

* * *

Wes really, really wished he was a bigger man. Not morally, but physically. It was hard not to feel like he was all of six years old again, waiting outside his father's office for punishment, when everything was sized to house someone like Paul Bunyan.

The mansion looked much the same as he remembered – long, open and echoing hallways, windows that reached floor to ceiling, and even the paintings were measured in feet, not inches.

Travis would probably have a heart attack knowing he grew up in the equivalent of Wayne Manor, Wes thought ruefully before being escorted into the office. It really was feeling like he was going to the principal's office…if he was expecting to be killed…

"Your father will see you now," David had announced, before opening the massive wooden doors just wide enough for Wes to side step through.

His father's office looked bigger than he remembered, but essentially the same. Expensive books, expensive rugs, the fireplace in the corner burning probably expensive wood, and a massive wood carved desk that looked like it belonged in the oval office, not a business magnate's home in Los Angeles.

"I see David was successful convincing you to meet me," Charles said, barely glancing up from whatever paperwork he had on the desk. It was something Wes found an odd sense of normalcy to, being ignored for business work. Almost reassuring, even.

"You're a little hard to ignore," Wes replied evenly.

"And yet, that's exactly what you've been doing for these past several months. I was afraid perhaps you wouldn't take my messages seriously and ignore the invitation," Charles replied, putting his pen down and sitting back in his leather chair.

For the first time, he looked sick to Wes. His face was pinched and drawn, and his skin was taking on a waxy look. Charles looked tired – bone tired.

Good.

"Can you blame me?" Wes asked, stopping several feet short of the desk – well out of arm's reach and close enough to the door to make an easy escape should he have to.

"Watch your mouth, Wesley. This is still my house, and my rules. Do you need a refresher?" Charles said, his voice growing cold, and instantly bringing back several…memorable…conversations that started with those same words. It never ended well for Wes.

"Didn't think so. Sit." Charles gestured to the chairs in front of the desk, but Wes remained where he was, standing.

"What do you want?" Wes asked irritably.

"We both know why you're here. Even you aren't so thick," Charles said. "My patience grows thin, boy, and I'm not sure you're prepared for the stakes to go any higher." He pulled the familiar and hated form from his desk drawer, placing it on the desk in front of him.

"I'm not signing the consent form," Wes said firmly, folding his arms defiantly.

"Wesley, it is a routine procedure. You're not even going to notice it missing. I've agreed to pay any and all bills related to the surgery, and you will be taken care of by some of the best surgeons in the country. If you agree, that is. But my offer will expire shortly, and you'll wish for the day you accepted it," Charles said carefully.

Wes could see his father's patience waning. He couldn't stand being defied, and the idea that it was his son who stood in his way was probably the worst thing the magnate could imagine.

Point to Wes.

"It's experimental at best in the US, it's normally between an adult and a child _age wise_, not genetically, and it takes at least 18 hours to undergo the procedure. Recovery for the donor is at minimum six months, and until then it's complete bed rest. I'm not stupid. I researched the surgery. I'm not giving up my life for yours," Wes shot back.

"Wesley, you don't want to push me. We both know what happens when you defy me. I'm sure you'd rather live through the procedure, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not going through with it!" Wes said. "You're wasting your time."

Charles decided to switch tactics. "If you agree to this, I will make sure you never have to worry about anything again. I'll make sure the police department takes you back, as a detective, if that's what it takes. Your partner? Alex? Neither of them will have to worry about money again. Just agree to this, and we'll never see each other again. Or…I can make sure that every debt they've ever incurred comes due, the house is foreclosed on, your partner evicted and most likely fired. I might even feel generous enough to see that he has _state funded _housing in prison, after going down for the rash of murders that seem to have sprung up in recent weeks."

Wes stared at his father, torn between the desire to tell him off because he never could as a child, and wanting to give in because he couldn't imagine how bad it would be if he didn't.

He couldn't help the bitter laugh. "I think I hear Faust in the background."

Charles frowned at his son. "Don't be so melodramatic. I asked you politely before, and you refused. You pushed me to this, Wesley."

Wes bristled at the accusation. "So it's _my_ fault that you were such a monster when I was a child that I feel no desire or obligation to help you by undergoing a risky, life altering surgery that could end my own career so you could live just a little longer? When happens if it doesn't work, _Dad_? What happens if a partial transplant isn't enough? Will you come back for the rest of me? Kidnap me, bully me into signing a donor card and then arranging a fatal accident? If I give into you now, nothing has changed," Wes said. "I don't care what you do to me. I'm not signing the informed consent paperwork. Not now, not ever. I will not help a monster like you to live."

The silence that followed was deafening. Wes was sure his father could hear the sound of his heart beating frantically against his ribs, because he sure as hell could. He managed to keep his breathing even, if not necessarily slowed, but he'd take whatever victory he could over his father.

Charles's expression didn't change. He carefully lowered the paper to the desk, placing the pen next to the 'sign here' tab. He stood slowly, purposely never breaking eye contact with Wes.

"All right, _son_," he spat the word as if it were a curse. "You want to play like you've suddenly grown a spine? Let's see how well you keep playing when it's your _wife_ taking the consequences. Oh, my mistake, your _ex_-wife. You still have feelings for her, right? How brave will you be when something happens to her? I may not be able to harm you, but the people you love? That's a whole new game I don't think you're prepared to play, are you, _boy_?"

"You touch her…" Wes started, but was immediately cut off when his father's hand closed around his throat.

"You'll _what_?" Charles snarled, his hand tightening to the point Wes began to gasp, pulling at his father's surprisingly strong grip. "You call me monster now, but do you even realize of what I am capable? I made it this far in life because I allowed _no one_ to stand in my way. No one, understand? If you do not give me what I want, I will simply take it from you by force. It makes no difference to me whatsoever. But for you…it will be the difference between you living, and you being afraid that you did. Because if I have to take this from you…I will take everything from you. Your job, your wife, your career and your partner. Do you understand me now?"

Wes's heart felt like stopped at his father's threats. It was one thing to refuse and be the only one to suffer…but Alex? Travis? He couldn't live with himself if he was the cause of something terrible happening to them…and terrible probably wasn't an appropriate word for what his father would do. Charles Mitchell could was very…creative. Especially when angry.

His father gave him a brutal shake about the neck. "I am not repeating myself. What's your decision, boy?"

And something in Wes snapped. He was an adult. A police detective who'd faced down madmen before. He'd clawed his way to freedom and he would _not_ be bullied by his father anymore.

"Fuck…you," he snarled.

He waited just long enough to see the shock register on his father's face before promptly kneeing him in the groin and his father dropped like a stone.

Both men fell to the floor, but Wes was much quicker to his feet.

"I will _not _be made to bow to you!" Wes shouted, and kicked his father again. "And if you ever come after me, or Alex, or Travis _ever_ again, I will make sure that everything you've ever done to me comes to light! And no one, no matter how much you pay them, will be able to save you this time, _Dad_. You'll spend what little remains of your life behind bars. Do _you_ understand _me_?" Wes didn't even wait for a reply, or acknowledgement that his father actually heard him. He turned quickly on his heel, before his father could regain his footing, and all but ran back to the car.

Wes sat for a moment, trying to get his breathing under control. No matter how badass you are, adrenaline has the same effect – shaky hands, rapid pulse, and rapid breathing. Not something he really wanted to drive with, but the alternative of getting stopped by the gate security spurred him into motion. Once he was out to the street and a safe distance away, his hands were too bad to hold the wheel and he was distracted enough to almost hit three other cars. He pulled off to the side, resting his forehead against the steering wheel, before taking out his phone.

He dialed the number he knew by heart, and Travis picked up on the third ring. "What now?" he demanded, his irritation about their argument that afternoon still evident.

"I think I just did something incredibly stupid…" Wes said. "And I don't know how to fix it."

* * *

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